Biting Honesty
by Suikyou
Summary: Five times Jill's teeth made a point
1. STARS, 1998

**Disclaimer: **Resident Evil and all its associated characters are property of CAPCOM; no infringement or ownership is implied here. It's their sandbox, I am just building sandcastles in it. 'Cause if I owned it, Jill would have an actual backstory.

**Rating**: T, mostly for bad language

**Author's Notes: **Many thanks to the Lovely Beta Faye and the Lovely Beta Himawari for feedback, concrit, and not chucking me out the window when I kept them up late to finish this one.

Given the nature of RE's canon, there's a fair bit of guesswork to be done to fill in some of the blanks. The Resident Evil Wiki and I are good friends at this point, but suffice to say, I had to make some things up. All errors in said making things up are mine, along with the inevitable spelling mistakes and grammar errors I didn't catch.

Do enjoy. :)

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><p>I. S.T.A.R.S. Training, 1998<p>

Training with Wesker is a schizophrenic experience. Some days what he orders will make perfect sense, and the teams will run through the exercises with no problem. Other days he orders something bizarre, and the teams have to muddle through it the best they can, or at least the best they can until Wesker corrects them. Chris thinks that he's an all right guy for a Captain, but sometimes, it's all too clear that Wesker has a weird streak in him.

Today is one of those days where the exercises feel a little tilted, a little random. Lots of people being put into situations they're not really trained for, and more than the usual amount of Wesker wearing that creepy, "rats in a maze" look he sometimes gets. Then, to top it all off, Wesker has Chris and Jill practicing hand-to-hand.

On each other.

Chris knows that Jill is not that confident about her hand to hand skills, especially since she's admitted that they could use some work. She's got training, of course, but it's not her specialization. She generally practices with Rich or Brad; given that the three of them share the same job, it makes sense for them to hone their skills together.

On the other hand, he trains with Forest and Wesker himself, because that's the only way to make it fair. Plus, he's got almost half a foot and at least fifty pounds on her. Between that disparity and Jill's skill level, flattening her should be easy.

He can see that knowledge in Jill's eyes as she steps into the ring. He can also see, from her stance and the little curve of her mouth, that she's not gonna let that stop her from giving her best to this exercise. And if he doesn't give it his all, she won't hesitate to put him in his place. It's one of the reasons he likes her; it reminds him a little of Claire, only with more polish to her brashness. She has a way of looking at him that always dares him to try to keep up, even when she's the one who's behind.

Chris has had a lot of thoughts about Jill since he joined the team last year. He used to think she was a waste of space, too porcelain for this sort of work, no matter what her background was. Even after he'd gotten to know her, she'd never really been clear about that; obviously, Barry and Captain Wesker knew, but the rest of them were left in the dark. It hasn't been a problem, so no one really cares.

Wesker directs them to face each other. "You may begin," he says, and Chris can hear a sneer in his voice. It's something he occasionally gets from Wesker, and as usual, it's just unexpected enough to throw him off.

Jill takes advantage of that to get in her first strike, and the follow-up nearly knocks him on his ass. He gets his brain together enough to push her back, to find his own follow-up, and then it becomes a little more methodical: attack and counter, in the little patterns so well ingrained in the combat computer of his mind.

So his original opinion of Jill was bullshit. Jill, on the other hand, is not, and she's proven that time and time again. He knows she's used to it, too, the proving, and over time that's really begun to piss him off. Still happens, though; this fight here, in fact, feels like Wesker trying to make a point to her, and that's part of what makes it damn uncomfortable.

The other uncomfortable part - where he doesn't want to fight Jill, even though he'll gladly spar with anyone else - he's not touching with a ten foot pole. If she's a teammate, she's a teammate, and doesn't deserve, want, or need differential treatment of any sort. If he can spar with Claire, he can spar with Jill, dammit.

The fight ends, as he expected it to end, with him pinning Jill. She squirms like a caught fish, but he's got her twisted up in holds so that she's not going anywhere any time soon.

"Come on, Jill," he says, voice light. "Tap out."

Her head turns, and for a moment she just breathes. Then, the corner of her mouth turns up slightly.

Before he can do anything , she rocks back, coming this close to smashing her head into his. Then her body slams to the left, then the right, then the left again. It's enough to break the tightness of his hold, and that is enough for her teeth to get close enough to latch onto his left forearm, hold, and _bite_.

He swears loudly and pulls his arm away. Her teeth let go, but it's then that he realizes she's half broken out, and he has to scramble to catch her again -

"TIME," Wesker calls. The two of them freeze in an odd tableau: Chris grabbing for Jill again as she tries to yank the rest of her body free. Jill's head is down, so he can't see her eyes, but there's a curve to her mouth that looks awfully pleased with itself.

"Interesting ingenuity there, Valentine," Wesker says as he comes to a stop just outside the ring. He has that shark-like smirk on his face.

"Thank you, sir," she replies.

"Though ultimately dangerous," he continues. "Unless you are able to precisely judge the exact depth of your bite, you might end up with some terrible blood borne infection. That would be contrary to your mission, am I understood?"

Her head ducks a little more. "Yes, sir," she replies.

"But still, excellent use of thinking outside the box. A full contact headbutt might be something to consider next time, though. Don't fear the pain, dear - use it."

Jill's voice is decidedly more muffled as she says, "Yes, sir."

"Good." He claps his hands once. "That's enough for today. You two are dismissed."

Without a comment to Chris - on his abilities or his health - he walks off.

Sometimes, Wesker really gets on Chris's nerves.

He releases Jill the rest of the way, then looks over his arm. The skin isn't broken, but there'd been enough force applied to bruise. In fact, it sort of looks like the start of a hickey.

"It's not too bad, is it?"

He looks up at Jill; she's standing in a sheepish pose, one hand curled about her elbow, eyes uneasy.

"It stings," he says, shaking his arm. He holds it up and waggles his fingers. "But no permanent damage." His eyes flick up and down her form, and even though she'd just bitten him, he has to ask. "Are you all right?"

Her head lifts a little, and there's something disturbed in the usual placidity of Jill's face. "Yeah," she says. "I'll be a little sore tomorrow, I think, but I'm all right."

"Good." And he means it. As much as it hurt to have her teeth in his skin, he's glad that Jill is willing to take risks - even weird ones - to get out of dangerous situations. It makes her a scrapper, a survivor, the kind of person Chris prefers to work with. He'd rather partner someone who will takes chances rather than someone who would stop struggling just because the rules would dictate it's time for them to stop struggling.

He starts to push up off the floor, and she offers her hand. He takes it, and the two of them rock him up to a stand. For a moment, she doesn't let go, and the warmth of her palm is unfamiliar against his skin.

Then, she drops it. "See you back in the station," she says, her voice sounding like it's caught in her throat.

He nods. "Yeah."

He wraps the bruise at work-the last thing he needs is people asking why he has teethmarks in his arm-but when he gets home, he trashes the wrapping and lets it heal free to the air. It's already starting to look less like a hickey by then, and by the next morning, has started to fade into his skin. The skin remains sensitive even after it vanishes completely, though, and he catches himself a few times looking down at his arm to see if the mark remains.

It doesn't.


	2. Europe, 2001

II. Somewhere in Europe, 2001

Barry's gone.

Chris has known it was coming; the man has been away from his family for nearly three years now. After Claire left to go pursue her own fight against Umbrella, it was only a matter of time before Barry would go, too.

It's just him and Jill and whatever allies they can scrape up now. Although they still have support, the actual help on the ground is pretty thin. It wears on him, never knowing who is gonna show up to help their next mission, never knowing who they can count on not to stab them in the back. Jill keeps her head up as best she can, but he can see it wearing on her too.

Hell, this whole fight is starting to wear on him. So much had happened in the beginning, the events coming one right after another: the Mansion, then Raccoon City, then Rockfort Island, all in a row. But soon it'll be the three year anniversary of the Mansion Incident, and nothing like those events has happened since. He wants to think that it's because they've been making a difference, that Umbrella has gone to ground to lick its wounds. He'd like to believe that their hard work and spilt blood was getting results. Hell, he'd like to believe that Wesker-still alive, still out there-hasn't come after them because one of his experiments forced him to grow a conscience and he killed himself out of grief. Or - even better - one of them just ate him.

He'd like to believe in all of that. But he can't. There are too many signs out there that say that, no matter what setbacks Umbrella has faced, they're still in business. The bioweapons are still being made. People are still being hurt. And even with Raccoon City incident pinned firmly to Umbrella, it still seems like no one is paying attention.

But it feels like it's just him and Jill against the darkness now.

He can't help but wonder when Jill is going to leave, too. She has as much reason to fight as he does - maybe more, given what had happened in Raccoon City - but there is still so much about her background that he doesn't know. If she has family in the 'States, she doesn't talk about it. If there's something for her to go back to, she doesn't mention it. Going home just doesn't come up with Jill.

But he's starting to wonder if that's for his sake. If there really is something back there she misses. If one day, he'll wake up and she'll be gone.

He keeps coming back to that this fine Spring day because Jill is late.

She has been on a mission for the past week, "running silent" for the whole of it. When they'd plotted it out, the timetable had been three to five days. It's now day eight, and there's still no sign of her, nor any communication from her. He's starting to worry that something has happened.

Not death. Not Jill; she's had too much practice in being careful, especially without someone to watch her back. She can handle herself; he's seen to that. But for her not to come back for so long...for her to not even send a signal...

Maybe she's gone, too.

Maybe she wanted to spare his feelings. Maybe the next time he gets a phone call, it'll be from an airport, with her voice on the other end. "I'm sorry, Chris," she'll say, "but I couldn't take it anymore. I had to go."

He'd let her, too. He wouldn't rage, or plead his case, or beg her to come back. Jill deserves better than the cold embrace of vengeance. She deserves better than a partner who cannot let go of the past, eternally focused on righting a wrong that was only incidentally personal.

She deserves a chance at a better life.

It is a very nice Spring day in whatever city they are holed up in. The sun is shining in a blue sky artfully dotted with hints of cloud. The breeze brings with it a hint of rain and the perfume of the first flowers, and it is warm enough for him to have the windows of their safehouse open. Sometimes, he can hear laughter floating up from the streets, people celebrating their lives in the way people normally do. They do not exist to fight; they have simpler reasons. Maybe they like their work. Maybe they have an adorable pet in a decent apartment. Maybe they have family - mom, dad, sisters, brothers. Maybe they have friends, or maybe a girlfriend, a lover, a fiancée, a husband. Maybe they get up in the morning, read the paper and see good in the world. Maybe they see evil, but it is a distant one, one that won't touch them. When they wake up in the morning, they have something to look forward to.

They don't wake up and make sure their home is still secure. They don't plan their next move over a paltry breakfast. They don't analyze every ounce of newsprint to see where if there's any clues to their next target. Their past hasn't been twisted and their future remains, if not clear, then certainly bright.

That's not his life. He can even concede that it's not a possibility for him, not anymore. But sometimes, he wonders what it would be like to taste that life for a day. Just a day.

When he thinks about Jill not coming back, when he thinks she might have a chance to taste that sunshine, he finds it even harder to understand why he keeps her here. She deserves better than what they have.

She deserves better than him.

Don't they always say that if you love someone, you should let them go? He'd done it for Claire, his own sister, and he'd done it for Barry, who has had his back for years. No reason he shouldn't do it for Jill, either. Even if his feelings for her no longer fall into the easy categories of "sister" or "friend."

The bell above the door clangs.

He blinks in his slat of daylight. It's not by a window - he's not that stupid - but it's at the right angle to catch good light for most of the day. He's got a book open in front of him, a pen propped up next to it. He was going to start his field log.

The bell above the door clangs louder, more insistent.

It's what got him started thinking these things, that field log. Not that any of it belonged in a report, but -

The bell clangs loud and long.

And he remembers: it's their doorbell. The one for the four - then three - and now two of them. They always rigged something like it in their safehouses.

"Jill?" he asks the air.

The bell responds with another loud clang.

Finally, he moves.

There's a signal he needs to send back, and his muscle memory is enough to remember what that is. Once he's done, he stays by the door, waiting. It feels like minutes pass before he hears it: steps on the stairs. Quiet ones, ones by now used to all the squeaks and creaks and annoying settling sounds these stairs can make. A moment longer, and he can barely pick out a soft click, like she wore some sort of heel.

She'd left in worn tennis shoes.

He really hopes there's a good reason for the heels. He did not spend two and a half days worrying about her because she went _shoe shopping_.

Though he'd take that over any other possible reason she'd be slowly, slowly clicking up the stairs.

Finally, the steps make it up the stairs, then creep up to the door. There's a beat, a shift, and then knocking on the door: a dash. a dot. a dash. R.

He replies: dot, two dashes, and another dot. P.

There's not even a pause before the rapping comes back: a dash and two dots. D.

Even as his mood lifts, he's still cautious enough to leave the chain on and step to the side as he opens the door. Just in case.

Jill gives him a little wave from the other side.

He holds in a sigh of relief she would not appreciate, unhooks the chain, and opens the door.

She strides in in clothes that are not what she left in. Very much not what she left in. She's carrying what looks like a grocery sack, too, including an incongruous loaf of French bread. Neither of them much cared for French bread anymore, not after eating so damn much of it in France.

She drops the bag on the closest counter, then spins around with her arms out. "Like it?" she asks, voice rough..

"It" is a fluffy white top patterned in tiny diamond cutouts over a black, knee length skirt and calf high boots. It fits well and it looks damn good on her, but from the tone of her voice...he nods anyway.

"Take a good look then," she snarls, "because as soon as I can, I'm going to burn it."

He leans back against the door. Much of his tension has started to drift away now that she's back, but part of him is still uneasy. Especially with that look on her face.

"What happened?" he asks, voice cautious.

"Oh, I'll get to that," she snaps. "But first, I'd like to -"

She stops. She looks around the room, then at him, and her eyes narrow.

"Chris," she asks, taking a few steps towards him, "how long has it been since you left this place?"

"Coupla days," he says with a shrug. "Does it matter?"

Her eyes take in the room again, then rake over him, still narrowed. "Hm."

Which is not an answer. It's not an answer to any of his questions, especially those starting with "Where" and ending with "were you." But despite general debriefing procedure, he knows all too well by now that Jill worked best after she got a shower. He pushes off the door. "Go get cleaned up, Jill," he says, voice low. "We can talk about it-"

She moves across the room like a shot, even in the boots. Suddenly she's a foot away from him, eyes intent on his face.

"The room looks great," she says. "But you look like shit."

It's like being a kid caught with your hand in a cookie jar, not that he'd ever had a cookie jar growing up. He runs a hand over his hair. "I had the time," he says, doing his best to keep his voice cool and level. So he'd neglected to run a comb through his hair or shave for a couple of days. It happened.

"You were worried."

He gives her a puzzled look. "Wouldn't you be, if I missed the deadline by days?" His voice has gone rough.

"Worried enough to sweep the kitchen," she replies. "Not worried enough to dust, sweep, and mop."

Oh. She'd noticed that. Damn her pretty eyes.

"Chris..." Her voice is softer, and it makes him look at her directly. "Did something happen? Is Claire all right? Barry?"

He shakes his head. "No, nothing happened," he says. "Got a message from Barry, in fact - he's fine. So's his family. Everything is all right." Despite himself, his voice drops on the last word, making it sound...not all right at all.

Her eyes flick across his face again, studying him. Suddenly, they narrow again.

"You didn't think I'd be sending you one of those messages, did you?"

Sometimes, he forgets that Jill can be really sharp, too.

He looks down and sighs. This was not the speech he wanted to be giving just when she'd gotten back, but since she'd asked, he was going to be honest. "Look, Jill," he starts.

He doesn't get to start the next word. He barely gets to finish the L in her name before her teeth are in his shoulder, and she's clamping down, and holy hell, it hurts like _fuck_.

You'd think, given the way zombies liked to bite, he'd be prepared to evade teeth. But this is so unexpected and weird that he has no time to get out of the way. He makes a clenched, pained sound, and her teeth dig in for a second more, then let go.

They step away from each other at the same time.

He touches the wet spot on his shoulder and winces, then looks at her. "What the fuck, Jill?"

She wipes her mouth, and her lips curl up. "It was that or smack you," she snarls, "and I have had too long a week to break my hand on your stupid head."

"So you bit me?" He can't stop poking at it. It continues to hurt every time he does.

"I had to do something to get your full attention." Her voice is rising.

"You had my full attention!" And so is his. It's weird to hear; they'll shout at each other in the field, no problem, but outside missions, it's always tense little whispers when they argue.

"Now I do," she says, voice hard. "So look at me and listen well, Chris Redfield, because I am only going to say this once: I am your partner, and I am not leaving."

He opens his mouth,but she keeps going. "I don't care what sort of half-baked excuse you've come up with. I don't care what sort of peace and light Claire and Barry have found. This is my job, Chris! It's got shit benefits and shittier pay, but it's where I need to be. It's what I need to do." Her hands are in fists now. "Umbrella must be stopped. Umbrella has to go down. And I will put my life on the line for you and that goal until it is done. Do you understand, Redfield? This is what I choose to do." Her voice drops. "If I have to do it alone, I will. If you ask me to leave, I will. But I don't want to do this by myself."

He can feel the shock on his face; then her words sink in, and he moves across to her. Her head rises as he comes close, and her eyes widen a little as he grips her shoulder. "As long as I'm alive, you won't have to," he says. It comes out in a low, taut voice, one that's too emotional, but there's no point in holding back. He - he thinks he could fight Umbrella alone, though he's never really had to. He might even survive the first few months. But Jill has already fought that battle, and as long as there is breath in him, she will never have to do that again.

She reaches up and touches his hand, the barest glance of skin on skin. Then she moves forward and presses her head to his chest. He folds his arms around her in just enough of a hug and resists the urge to push his forehead against her hair.

Jill's home. She's safe. She smells like cigarettes and alcohol, but it is really her here.

Moments like this are when he really understands that she is in it for good. That she's not gonna leave. That they are truly partners.

No matter what box his feelings for Jill ultimately end up in, that is something he can be confident of.

But he doesn't think about that long, because the moment never lasts that long. She steps back, blinking up at him. "I'm sorry I made you worry," she says.

"It's all right," he reassures. "It's what partners do."

A ghost of a smile crosses her mouth. "I think I'll go get cleaned up now."

"All right," he says. He is going to check on his shoulder, but he doesn't need to tell her that. "Twenty minutes?"

"Twenty-five."

He raises an eyebrow. "I'll explain later," she says, voice deadpan.

"Soon," he says.

She nods. "Yeah. Soon."

They look at each other for what feels like an embarrassingly long time, and then she turns away and glides into her room. The door shuts soft and firm behind her.

The bite mark on his shoulder is deep, and there are a few indents where she almost broke the skin. It'll leave a nice bruise, one that will hurt as it heals, but there won't be any scarring.

He has to admit, he's a little wistful about that. He's gotten so many scars for all the wrong reasons in this fight. It would be nice to have one for a good reason, a reminder.

But he's right: though the bruise is dark, almost pretty, and though he winces at raising his arm for a while, it leaves no scar.

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><p><strong>Just A Note or Two:<br>**

This story is finished; it's just of the six parts, four are still in beta. They should be along within a couple of weeks.


	3. BSAA NA HQ, 2006

All right, so it was more like three weeks, but I went a-travelin' in the interim. Special thanks again to the Lovely Beta Duo, who put up with me whining about editing and "WHY SO MANY WORDS?" for the past week and change.

Author Notes: "SOA" stands for "Special Operations Agent"; "SOU" for "Special Operations Unit." The Spencer Estate mission from "Lost in Nightmares" takes place in August of 2006. This was written prior to the E3 Revelations trailer, so the timeline is more RE 5 (and the in-joke is entirely unintentional.)

T for swearing still in effect. Bad words ahoy!

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><p>III. BSAA North American HQ, July 2006<p>

Chris leans on the 7th floor balcony and wishes for a smoke.

He'd quit shortly after the Mansion Incident, too caught up in his obsession with investigating Umbrella to even notice he hadn't had a cigarette in days. Once he'd gotten to Europe, he'd remained resolutely in the non-smoking camp, even though it was a little more acceptable there. But there were days, times, when the urge crept up on him, when he could smell the smoke curling around him, when his fingers twitched as if ashing a butt.

But that's not why he wants one now.

He wants a cigarette because hell, he's tried everything else to get around this mental block. He can't help but wonder if a smoke might clear the air. He hasn't spent much time in the bottle either since the days between the Air Force and S.T.A.R.S., and he was never that fond of weed, but they're candidates too. Anything is a candidate if it would just help him put the damn pieces of the puzzle together.

If he could put together something to finally point out where the hell Wesker was.

He turns, leaning his back against the edge of the balcony. This BSAA HQ is in an industrial complex, and even this close to DC, its views aren't anything to write home about. But sometime in the first few months, some enterprising SOA had noticed that the seventh floor balcony got decent light and was big enough to put plants on. Over the last year or so, it had bloomed into its own little garden: planters of flowers, planters for herbs, small trees and benches and even a small fountain with water singing over rocks. He'd heard that some enterprising soul in the Support department was going to try for vegetables next year, and was taking requests. He'd warned them against cucumbers- no one grew just one cucumber- and wished them luck. Their office always seems to manage all sorts of weird shit, from this little comfort spot to figuring out where they'd spar to getting time on the local shooting ranges. In a way, this garden represented how the BSAA had grown from eleven randoms to an organization with clout that accomplished actual good: one idea compounded by others until suddenly it was its own thing. He might have been a founder, but he didn't really claim any responsibility for what the BSAA had become. It had done that all on its own.

It'd done a lot in the past few years, too.

Except find Wesker.

He closes his eyes. He shouldn't be surprised; even as their Captain, even when he was a "good" guy, Wesker had always had plans within plans. He is still alive - the Kennedy Report had confirmed that in 2004 - and in the torrent of information the BSAA strained through weekly, a hint of his presence rarely was missing. A deserted compound in the Amazon. Burnt pieces of a leather duster scattered within the shell of another bioweapons base. Spent shells matching a Samurai Edge. Not much in the way of clues, and indeed, there were some SOAs who were sure Wesker was dead. He'd been quiet for too long.

Those pieces, though, might as well be neon signs to Chris and Jill. They know he is out there. Still scheming. Still making all the little moves on his personal chessboard, the one that would ensure the rise of a new Umbrella. Still working towards his own nebulous goals.

And knowing Wesker, still passionate in his hatred of Chris.

He'd given up trying to figure it out over the years, even though it seemed everyone had a theory on it. Claire's was straightforward: Chris had ruined a major piece of Wesker's plans for Umbrella and had done so at such a key moment that he'd fixated on him for it. Barry's was simple: Wesker was an insane, and Chris just happened to be in his line of sight when things went wrong. Amir - another of the Original Eleven, and one who'd had his own run-ins with Wesker - had a more complex theory, tied into the political currents of Umbrella, Raccoon City, and that secret force before the scenes that'd shown up in the Kennedy Report. Lily, a nurse who was a former member of the anti-Umbrella group he'd served with, had long since decided it was repressed homosexual attraction, one that had twisted upon itself into obsession. Her theory, he'd found over the years, was quite a popular one. He'd never been sure what to make of that.

And Jill -

Jill tended to keep quiet when others discussed theories of Wesker's bizarre hatred. She'd shared her thoughts on the subject with him once, though: Wesker hated Chris because Chris represented his lost humanity. It was why, she'd explained, he would try to explain things to him one minute, then turn around and try to kill him the next.

He doesn't know which of the theories is correct. He has the disturbing feeling all of them were, in their own way. It isn't his job to try and figure out Wesker's shit, though; it's his job to find him and stop him. Permanently.

On his desk right now are neat stacks of files: plain manilas for incidentals and reports to be filed; thicker, colored folding files for actual cases; and off to one side, a black, three ring binder that contained every tidbit and slightest whiff of information about Wesker, collected from all over the world. Every new possible piece that comes in is carefully examined before it earns a place in the binder.

It is smaller than it should be for a chase spanning eight years and at least four continents.

In fact, it is starting to feel like one of those five thousand piece puzzles without the box lid. There are random connections, but getting everything to connect to each other remains tenuous. It all only tells of where Wesker has been, not where he is now, or what exactly he could be up to.

It's a block he's been trying to break for almost a year, and it's really - _really_ - starting to wear on him. It's why he's still at HQ, even though it's seven in the evening and the sun is starting to set behind him.

His boss likes to point out they work in shifts for a reason. Jill is right there with him, needling Chris about his long hours on top of missions. And they're right, both of them. But he just can't - let it go.

Maybe that's where a cigarette would come in handy. Or a bottle. Or a joint. Something that would just...pull his mind back from this. Something that could, for a moment, free his mind of Wesker, let him pull back to view a bigger picture than he's been capable of seeing.

Chris knows he's considered pretty smart. Some have even bandied about the word "genius." While he's no slouch at tactics and he can shoot with the best of them, every time he runs his mind against Wesker's, he knows who the actual genius is. He has this feeling, resurrected often at 3 am on sleepless nights, that he'll never actually track down Wesker. Wesker will find him.

More to the point, Wesker will find _them_.

Him and Jill.

Partners still. Friends still, despite the occasional off day or nasty fight. And still, despite encouragement, long talks with other people, and his sister threatening to break things over his head if he didn't get on it, just that. Just friends and partners.

He loves Jill. He's loved her for years now, and while he's never been the best when it comes to women, he's pretty sure he's not alone in his feelings. Fairly sure, at least. There have been too many little moments, times when the world condenses down to the two of them, when he can feel something in him sync with something in her. Too many times when even the smallest space between them is too much. Too many times when the they've stood on the edge of something -

And, resolutely, not fallen over.

He runs a hand over his hair with a sigh. He'd like to blame politics for it, and there certainly are some at work. The last bit of clout they'd used as Founders was to make sure they stayed together as partners. Period. Final. Small assignments they could handle on their own were fine, but they should be considered a unit by the BSAA. At a time when the BSAA could've used the extra set of hands to be available for other missions, they hadn't given in easily; in the end, though, he and Jill had won out. With it had come some additional regulations: they were, from that point on, just SOAs; they were on call for all branches of the BSAA; and oh yes, "keep it clean, kids."

As if they hadn't kept it strictly platonic for years. No matter the depth of feeling between them, they had not crossed that line. Sometimes, he got a kiss on the cheek from Jill; sometimes, he gave in and kissed her on the forehead. Every so often, there was a hug that lasted a lot longer than it should. But that was the extent of it.

So politics certainly had a role in it. But politics didn't keep them from closing that final gap, and he knew that without even talking to Jill.

It was Wesker.

Everything always came back to Wesker.

He'd started them on this path, and they'd been chasing the ghost of him all over the world ever since. With him still out there -

Anything more between them was impossible.

He closes his eyes, shutting out the pinking clouds above him.

It's sad how cyclical his thoughts are these days: Wesker, the BSAA, Jill, repeat until he wants to jab a fork into his brain. It's a rut so bad that it's infected his dreams, too, which he well knows is a sign he's stressing out about these things too much.

The dreams of Wesker are bad enough, but they fall into the categories he'd expect: being surprised by Wesker, losing to Wesker, watching someone suffer because of Wesker. He's had practice handling those.

The dreams of Jill, on the other hand, do their best to wreck his shit. When they're memories, they're not so bad, but when it's the two of them together - _together_ - it always makes for a bad day the next day. They're just so...peaceful. So fucking peaceful. As if the world has finally aligned to the better promise he's always hoped for.

And they seem so damn real, too, that sometimes when he comes to work, he just -

"I thought I might find you up here."

He snaps to face the voice, hand dropping to his non-existent sidearm, before his brain kicks in with who it is.

Jill, peeking around the doorway, just smiles at him.

He falls back to a more relaxed stance, doing his best to not look embarrassed by that little display. Not like he hasn't done it before. Not like she hasn't done it before, and worse; Jill always seems to reach for her throwing knives first.

"Since you weren't in the office," she continues, moving out onto the balcony, "and you usually work out in the morning, this had to be the place." Breezily she walks over to the balcony edge, leaning against it just to his left. "Taking a break?"

He nods, still taking her in. She's in jeans and a knit top, street clothes, but her hair's damp and pulled back, so she probably just came from the gym. It doesn't explain what she's doing here, though.

She glances over at him, then tilts her face to the sun. "Long break?" she asks, voice light.

He turns back to lean against the edge. "Probably longer than it should've been," he says.

"Ah. Working on Wesker, then." No question inflection to it, just a statement of fact. 'Course, she knows exactly what he does when he stays late; she's stayed with him more than once.

He refrains from letting out a hearty sigh. "Why else would I be here at this time of night?"

"I dunno," she says. "I was sorta half-hoping you'd taken up knitting in secret."

He glances at her again. Her grin widens a hair, and she bumps his shoulder with hers. It sends a waft of the scent of her shampoo to him - something tropical, though not coconut - and he has to resist the urge to stick his nose in her hair and inhale deeply. She's used the same shampoo for years, and the scent association is firmly implanted in his brain. Like many things associated with Jill, it's comforting enough to lift his mood; despite himself, he can already feel some of the gloom fog dissipating.

"I tried it once," he admits, not quite looking at her. "When Claire was learning. Crochet, too." He holds out his hands. "Don't really have the coordination for it."

She scoffs. "The marksman doesn't have the coordination to hold a pair of needles right."

"I was fourteen at the time."

"See? You'd probably be a natural at it now." A look and a glint in her eye. "Unless you're too old to learn."

He resists the urge to brush a stray strand of hair out of her face. "Says the woman who is a year younger than me."

"Me? I'm twenty-eight, Chris."

"For four years, Jill."

The corner of her mouth curves up, and then, suddenly, she snaps around to face him. "I have a proposition for you," she says.

"A proposition?" he asks, voice guarded.

"Yes," she continues. "I had to stop by to get my flash drive," she holds it up, keyringed around her finger, "and when I saw your car in the parking lot - I got an idea. An inspiration. Something that might help you with this Wesker case."

His eyes widen a hair, and he has to keep himself from leaning in to ask, "What?"

She grins, and it's not entirely a pleasant grin. "Take the night off."

He stares.

"The whole fucking night," she continues. "Get away from this place and go do something that has absolutely nothing to do with work. At all. No connection to Wesker, or the BSAA, or bioterror, or...anything. Anything at all. Just..."

Her grin fades into an expression more worried than he's seen on her face in a long time. "Take a break, Chris," she says.

For a second, he's touched. Jill usually doesn't openly worry about him, just as he does his best not to openly worry about her; they've gotten good at conveying it in subtler ways. To see her come out and just say this means that it's probably not just a flash in the pan idea, but one she's had for a while. She was just looking for the right time to say it, and this - yeah, this would be the best time to bring it up, with just the two of them to hear it.

He does consider it for a moment. But then reality creeps back in, and he looks away. "I can't, Jill," he says, tucking his head down.

She makes a frustrated noise. "Why, Chris?" she asks. "It's not like you can't leave it alone for one night. Even if something did come in, there's clearances and..." Another frustrated noise. "Why?"

"Because I can't let it go."

"Chris - "

"No, Jill," he says, looking over at her. "It's got nothing to do with not wanting to let it go. It's about being able to. And I...can't." He shakes his head. "It's a great idea, but even if I left now and ran around the Mall until the sun set, it'd still be there waiting for me when I stopped. I've tried before. And I always end up right back where I started, thinking about the damn case. Trying to put all the little bits together in another way." He looks away with a shake of his head. "He's always there."

Jill lets out her own sigh. "Damn Wesker," she breathes out. "Trust him to be able to do a number on you, even now."

"He's got to be stopped," Chris says, the words feeling small and half-there.

Her hand touches his shoulder, rests for a moment, then squeezes. He looks over at her again. "It doesn't need to rest just on you, Chris," she says. "The whole BSAA is with you on this."

He gives a slight nod. "I know," he says. "But with Wesker - it always feels like it's going to come down to just the two of us. Even if another part of the BSAA did catch him, I feel like it'd still end up just - him and me."

"Yeah," she says softly. "You're not the only one."

He meets her eyes at that, and she gives his shoulder another squeeze, then lets her hand slip away. She puts her back to him, and he continues to watch as she folds her arms and settles into the hip-cocked, head down stance that tells him she's mulling over an idea. He wishes, once again, that he had the words to comfort her when it came to him and Wesker; as much as he worries about endangering her or Claire, her worry about Wesker gunning just for him...well, it's more than justified, and so possibly worse.

He really hates to worry her like that.

Before he can offer any comfort, though, she swings around again. "All right, I have a modification to my proposition, then," she says, holding up her hand. "Just - hear me out."

He pauses, then gives a slow nod. It's the least he can do.

"I go with you," she says. "Help you take the break you need."

He frowns. "Are you saying treat this 'night off' like a mission?" he asks.

She makes a face. "And this is why you need a night off, partner. Because...no, not like a mission. More like a friend," she gestures at herself, "helping out a friend." She gestures at him. "Got it?

He nods, hoping she can't see the tips of his ears burning. Like a mission? Good Christ, Redfield, you _moron_.

"Most of the 'Things of Interest' are closed already," she continues, "but there's always...oh, a movie. Maybe even dinner, if you're up for it. So," she draws the word out, a spark in her eyes, "what do you think?"

He takes a moment before answering, already knowing she's not going to like it. "I think," he says carefully, "that you'd be wasting your night."

Her eyes narrow.

He holds up his hands. "I'm sorry, Jill, I really am," he says. "Dinner and a movie, that sounds great. That sounds like something I haven't done in a long time. But it also sounds like something I'd drift off during, and the last thing I want to do is - "

She moves before he can react.

Jill, as many SOAs and SOUs have discovered in the past, is frighteningly fast when she wants to be. He's developed ways around it when they spar, but usually he only has to use them when they're sparring, not talking. So he's totally unprepared for her sudden snake strike, and in fact, doesn't know what happened until the burn flares to life on his fingers.

She circles her jaw, pressing her teeth deeper into the skin, before letting go and stepping back.

He blinks at her, then at his fingers, where the carved crescents of her teeth marks still throb. There's another throb, and then his mouth catches up with his brain.

"Fucking hell...Jesus, Jill!" he yells, pulling his hand in to his chest.

She gives him a sharp, cocky smile. "You think I can't keep your attention, Redfield?"

"I was paying attention!"

"I meant while we were out."

"By biting me?"

She leans in a little closer to him. "Chris," she says, voice huskier than before, "I think you underestimate the lengths I'd go to keep your attention."

Okay, that feels strange, to have his brain downshift from _OUCH!_ to _Ooo_ in a second's time. It's weird enough that it freezes his tongue, too, and he can't get anything out in reply.

She shifts back. "If that means biting you every time you start to wander off to Wesker, I will," she says. "Or singing. Or making faces. Or holding up warning cards like they do in soccer." She crosses her arms over her chest, eyes determined. "You may think this fight is yours alone, and as much as I hate to admit it, you're mostly right. But that doesn't mean I won't help you any other way I can, all right?"

He absently shakes his hand out; she'd gotten him just under the joint, and there were a lot of nerves in fingers. "But that's not fair to you, Jill," he says. "To give up your time just - "

She cuts him off with a raspberry.

He stares at her, dumbfounded.

She sighs, and her face takes on an almost pleading look. "You have way too high an opinion of my life, Chris," she says. "What would I be doing right now if I weren't here? I'd be in my apartment. I might have found something to eat, or I might be putting it off for another five minutes just because it'd be something different. No pets, no plants, and I did laundry over the weekend, so nothing to worry about there. I'd probably be at my laptop or - well, I did have a good work - out, that tends to make me adventurous, so maybe I'd look for a book instead. But then I'd notice my shelves were dusty. So what would I be doing right now, Chris? DUSTING." She makes a face at him. "Dusting and listening to whatever game show is on right now."

"I think it's Wheel."

The corners of her mouth turn up, but she resolutely does not smile at him. "You see?" she says, voice softer. "You're not stepping on any plans besides cleaning." Her eyes sharpen a hair. "You're just making an excuse for me not to help you, and that is not what partners do, Chris."

Which is the point when he caves. His body slumps, and he knows she sees it right off the bat. But she doesn't gloat just yet; she waits.

"All right," he says, words echoing off a sigh. "All right, you win. Dinner, movie, it's on."

She grins a little. "Sound a little more depressed about it, partner," she teases.

He runs his hand over his hair again, and winces at the whisper of pain in his fingers. "I don't think you know what you're in for," he admits. "I'm not exactly at my social best right now."

Her grin takes on a softer cast. "Chris," she says, voice low and full of warm humor, "we've been working together for almost ten years now. You don't need to be at your social best."

Which might be true, because it's Jill, but also - it's Jill. He doesn't like to presume on the length of their relationship just to get out of being socially aware of her. That could ruin friendships, even long - lasting ones.

"I don't see it that way," he says, not quite meeting her eyes.

She's about to argue - he can tell from the set of her mouth and the way her hands stiffen - so he interrupts her with, "I'll do my best. Just - one thing?"

"Yeah?"

He holds up his hand to show the fading teethmarks. "Don't bite me again," he says. "I think this is enough for one night."

"You said you wanted your mind off Wesker," she points out.

"I don't think I need pain to do it," he says.

Her eyebrows arch.

All right, he had just gone on and on about how hard it was to get this damn case off his mind, even when he tired himself out physically.

"Pinch me instead, then," he says quickly. "It's less likely to hurt your teeth."

"I'm not going to break my teeth on your hide, Chris," she replies, obviously amused. "But - you're right, it doesn't look good in public." One corner of her mouth goes up. "Space out during the movie, though, and I reserve the right to gnaw on your shoulder."

His turn for his eyebrows to go up. "You have a thing for biting you never mentioned, Valentine?" he asks.

She just smiles at that in a predictably Jill way.

He holds in his sigh. "Any idea where you want to eat?" he asks, moving away from the balcony.

"I was hoping you had an idea," she says as they head for the door. "I was going to check out the movie possibilities."

He stops short at that.

She wrinkles her nose at him. "Eww, no, I am not taking you to rom-com girl porn," she replies, grabbing the door and pulling it open. "Unless you really feel a need to - "

"No," he cuts in. "No, I think I'm good on my girl movie quota for a while."

She gives him a sympathetic look. "Claire's been on an 80s kick, hasn't she?" she says.

"Yes," Chris says. He only saw Claire occasionally these days, but somehow, inevitably, something by John Hughes always ended up on the TV of their shared space.

She gives a little nod. "I was thinking something a little more...actiony, actually," she says. "Pretty people do improbable things with explosions and guns sort of actiony."

He tilts his head. "MI:3 is out still, isn't it?" he says. He'd seen signs for it during his morning runs.

Her eyes widen in delight. "I think it is," she says. "And that would be acceptably improbable."

"Don't you mean impossible?"

Her mouth flattens, and she shakes her head, as if wondering why she ever decided to put up with him. It makes Chris smile a little, and for the first time, he thinks that he might actually be able to relax a little bit this evening.

Probably not as much as she'd like him to. But any little bit would help right now.

They walk quietly over to the stairs. He puts a hand on the door, then looks over at her. "Coming down, or meet you downstairs?" he asks.

"I'll meet you downstairs," she says, nose already bent over her phone. "See if you can think up a restaurant while you're at it, huh?"

"Will do," he says, and slips into the stairway. It's two floors down to "their" floor, but normally this walk down goes slowly as he reshoulders the burdens of walking back into his office. Tonight, he takes them at a good clip, mind already flipping through the Rolodex of possibilities for dinner.

He only pauses when he absently opens the door with his left hand and gets a little shock of pain from it. He pulls it back and looks at the bite marks; the color has mostly faded away from them, but the crescents remain, a little darker than the skin around them. They're not in a place that'll bruise or scar; in fact, by the time they get to dinner, he's pretty sure those spots will be fine.

In a way - and in a way he'd never admit to Jill - he wishes they would remain, like a sort of unintentional tattoo. It would've been nice to have some reminder right on his skin that there were people pulling for him. The people that cared for and believed in him. The people who would fight for him to retain his sanity now, and who would be there when the fight inevitably came against Wesker.

The people that, he hoped, would help him win that fight against Wesker.

But that's only a minor part of him. Most of him is just glad she didn't bite his shooting hand.

He shakes his head and pulls open the stairway door. It's best not to keep Jill waiting; she just comes looking for him when he does that.

She'll always, it seems, come looking for him. And she always, it seems, knows exactly where to find him.

He can't imagine it any other way.


	4. BSAA West African HQ, 2009

IV. BSAA West African Branch HQ, 2009

The aftermath of the Kijuju Incident finds Chris and Jill separated again.

It's not by choice, but Chris can grudgingly understand the reasons for it. Jill has been in the "possession" of Wesker and Tricell for almost two and a half years at this point, and that means she needs a thorough medical inspection and possibly an even more thorough debrief. Chris and Sheva have their own debrief as well, but that's standard, and at this point, he's been through so many of them he could do it in his sleep. Jill isn't going to be so lucky.

As much as he understands it, though, it's still frustrating. He doesn't voice it, but there's this obsessive desire building in his head to get her home. He wants her safe and secure and away from any and all fighting, and while the US HQ has its own share of problems, zombie hordes have never been one of them.

He thinks that it's a pretty understandable urge, given that up until recently, Jill was dead. He had helped look for her body. He had attended her funeral and watched her name get added to the BSAA Memorial to the Fallen. He had put flowers on her grave. It is only by a twist of fate and Wesker's madness that his partner survived to be found again. The sooner she gets out of this area, the better, in his mind.

But his mind is not the one making the decisions, and so for the time being, Jill stays in Africa.

He stays, too, even when the usual quarantine and debrief are finished. He joins the clean-up team, working with Josh and Sheva again on the front, making sure that as many infected and worse are neutralized across the region. Along the way, they pick up more info on what Tricell and Umbrella have been doing in the Africa, and find out that the problems here extend back farther than any of them had any clue about. He writes memos to HQ that they're going to have to re-examine all their findings from the Spencer Estate, not to mention the information they picked up from the Kennedy mission in 2004. The research division of the BSAA is going to be up to their butts in paperwork after this case, checking carefully to make sure that they didn't miss anything else important in the last six years.

Jill isn't allowed on those missions; she's kept separate from the rest of the agents. From him. And that's starting to get to him, too. He hasn't had an actual conversation with her since she contacted him by PDA during the mission itself, and that was all too brief. He wants to know how she's doing. He wants to know if she's okay. But all he has are the occasional brief status updates and the little bits of rumor he can pick up around their base. It's not enough - it won't be enough until he talks to her again - but it's all he has for now, and he can hold onto that.

She's alive. That's the important thing.

Then he comes back from a clean-up mission one evening, a shower and a hot meal on his mind, to find a message waiting for him at HQ's desk. CR 2 is all it says, but it says it in Jill's looping, graceful writing. In a snap, he's not so run down tired anymore, and all other concerns vanish.

Okay, not all of them. Not entirely. He has no clue what she would be summoning him for. But he'll be damned if he doesn't get there as soon as he can.

He takes the stairs two at a time up to the third floor where the conference rooms are. They're more like briefing rooms than the official, sterile conference rooms he's used to: plenty of seating, a board to give details, and a cozy feeling of use. But it's an interesting place for Jill to choose to meet him, one that twists his stomach a little. Shouldn't be too bad, though - it's Jill, after all.

Maybe that's the problem, though; it is Jill, but in a way, it's not. There's a thirty month gulf between them, and though who she had been in those halls with Wesker had felt very much the same...he didn't know. He hadn't had a chance to know.

Not to mention the elephant in the room no one was talking about: Jill's work as Wesker's accomplice. Mostly, he was positive the BSAA wasn't going to be able to do anything about it; there was too much evidence that it was work done under coercion. Part of him wondered, though. Jill was one of the Eleven Founders, and she had worked her butt off for them, but the BSAA had kept changing after she was gone. He'd taken so many missions that he'd seen more of its exposed core, and some of it bothered him.

Especially since that core had been funded in part by Tricell. The same Tricell that had been in bed with Wesker for, from all appearances, a very long time.

That was another thing he was going to have to talk to his superiors about, and not by memo, either.

But that was for later. Jill...Jill is now

There's a little star on the door of the conference room, and he pulls it off and tucks it in his pocket before going in. S.T.A.R.S. had been where it started, and stars had played a big role in their codes when they still worked underground. Its presence unkinks something in his chest.

As does the Jill on the other side of the door.

"Hey Chris," she says as he shuts the door. She turns from the window on the other side of the room to offer him a hesitant smile. No skintight suit for her now, just a pair of regulation pants and blue uniform jacket over it, both slightly too big for her. She'd even found a cap; Jill always seemed to find a hat. She moves to stand near the briefing table in front of the board, and he mirrors her on the other side of it.

"Wait long?"

"Not really," she says, and the inflection on her words tells him that's not entirely true.

"Just got back from clean-up," he explains.

"It's fine," she says. "Need a seat?"

"I'll stand."

She gives a little nod, and for a moment, it seems like neither of them know what to say.

"I heard you cut your hair," he blurts out.

Well, it's one way to start a conversation.

She smiles a little and pulls her cap off, showing off a short - really short - mess of blonde underneath. "Easier than dyeing it," she says. "The doc says it'll won't start growing back in the old color for another coupla months - he's not even sure why it turned blonde, really - so I figured I'd get it out of the way." She clamps her cap back on her head with a little twist.

He wants to tell her that the blonde isn't all bad, but he doesn't think she'd take that well. He fiddles with his belt loops and tries to think of another topic of small talk. Jill has a message for him, yes, but he - he really just wants to talk to his partner again. And he can see, in the way her fingers twist against the table top, that she'd like to do the same.

"How's the recovery of data going?" she asks.

"Better," he says. "We've found some of their back-up sites, and some of the docs we picked up along the way are starting to fit together. It's not a pretty picture." He glances at her. "You've been putting together some of the situation info, haven't you?"

She nods slowly. "My memory is touch and go in some places," she says, her voice the same bland tone she uses to report to HQ, "but I've been checking it against some of the info you guys have come up with and putting together what I can. I know there's plans in other places, but - "

"We don't have access to those yet."

Her mouth tightens at the corners. "The Travis-Gionne family is not impressed with your report, Chris. Or mine. They're gonna fight us on this one." She touches the center of her chest, right over her scars, and her eyes take on a feral look. "I hope they do, too."

"Jill - "

She shakes her head a little. "Sorry. I've - " A bitter smile flits over her mouth, and he has a feeling that their attempt at light-hearted opening conversation has just failed.

She confirms that with her next words: "Chris, they're sending me back to the 'States. They're sending me home."

_FINALLY!_ his mind cheers, but there's something about the way she says it that throws him off. "Isn't that great?" he asks. "You get to go home."

She gives a little nod and smile, but it doesn't touch her eyes. "I know. Part of me is happy about it." She flattens her hands against the table.

"And the other part of you?"

"Is worried." Her eyes don't quite meet his. "Chris, one of the reasons they're recalling me is because they want to run a higher grade of medical testing on me."

His eyes narrow. He'd known she'd need to be cleared here in Africa, but after seeing those containers - "Just to make sure you're clear of the t-virus, right?" he asks.

She shakes her head slowly. "No, I think there's more to it than that," she says, voice quiet. "I think they want to be very sure that I'm Jill Valentine. Still the same Jill Valentine."

A part of him freezes.

She sighs. "And looking for traces of P-30." She looks at him and cracks a smile. "I'm not gonna be able to pee anywhere but a cup for weeks."

She's trying to make light, and he's not sure if she's doing it for his sake or for hers. Maybe both. Good thing, too, because he's starting to see red.

"And let me guess," he says, "samples from here aren't good enough."

"For this kind of inquiry?" She shakes her head. "Oh no." Her mouth quirks. "You know that, Chris. You'd want the same kind of testing, the same kind of thoroughness, if we found Wesker's body."

A muscle twitches in his jaw. "I hope we never do."

Her mouth tightens. "Me, too," she says, voice soft. "I'd prefer it if he burned."

He meets her eyes then, and she lets him, lets that pain shine out in them. "Jill - " he starts.

She steps back, arms crossing over her chest. "They're sending me out tomorrow," she says. "Tomorrow morning. Early in the morning." She makes a face; Jill is only a part-time member of the morning tribe. "More like tonight, really. So I wanted to tell you in person. I know you've been keeping discreet tabs on me, Chris."

He looks away. "Not that discreet, apparently," he mutters.

She makes a sound, sort of like a laugh, sort of like a sigh. "No, you did pretty well. It's just what I'd knew you'd do." Her voice softens. "Because it's what I'd do, too. What I have been doing, as much as I can. How's your chest?"

For a moment, he's not sure what she means, and then he recalls: she'd jumped on it. In heels. "Bruised but getting better," he says, rubbing a self-conscious hand over it. "Not so tough to breathe anymore." He glances at her. "How's yours?"

Her eyebrows go up, then waggle for a second, and it makes him want to laugh and cry at the same time because that's his Jill, that's her gesture, that's how she always takes innuendo, and he can't understand why the BSAA has to put her through such shit to see it. "It's healing," she says. "Though the Doctor says next time, he's going to make sure you guys carry wire cutters."

"It wouldn't have helped," he replies, voice dry.

"I told him that, but I think he needed to complain about something." The levity in her face fades. "Chris, I didn't say it then, but - thank you."

He shakes his head. "You don't have to - "

"Yes," she says, moving around to his side of the table. "Yes, I do." She holds out her hand. "Thank you, Chris, for coming after me."

He looks down at her hand for a moment, then back up at her. "No, Jill," he says quietly.

She looks at him for a moment, eyes wide, like she can't believe what he's offering her. Then she's there, against him, her arms wrapped tightly around his chest and her head buried beneath his chin. He clamps down on her just as tight, and he wants to pull her against him so hard she squeaks, but he refrains. It wouldn't do any of their injuries any good right now.

Just the same, he wishes he could.

The wish fades away under the feeling of Jill next to him, against him. They'd had their own sort of casual affection before she'd - before what'd happened - but there's a hug and there's a _hug_. This is starting to feel very much like the latter, and he can't say he's regretting it. Words are one thing, and he wants them back - all their long and stupid conversations, or the short and pithy ones, the quips and the familiar in-jokes, the random and the ridiculous that they had both become so good with around each other - but this is good, too. This makes up, a little, for all the time they've been made to spend apart one way or another.

He used to dream about holding Jill in a more intimate way, but his dreams for the past two years have been full of glancing attempts at moments like this. The reality, as it turns out, is so much better. It's not just the press of her body against his, or the way her hands rub his spine. It's the feel of her breath against his shirt, warm and a little damp; it's the slight shuffle of her feet as she holds herself there; it's the scent of her, mostly the cheap shampoo and soap they used here, but changed just enough to be her own, to be Jill.

Christ. It's really Jill.

He's really holding Jill.

And just as he has that realization, her body shifts against his, and her breathing changes. Where before it had a soft, smooth edge, a comforted edge, there's a hitch in it now. He listens a little longer, and - there it is again. On his back, her fingers shift from pressing into his muscles to suddenly digging in.

But what really gets him is the slight tremor he can suddenly feel against him.

He shifts his head a little, enough so he can whisper "Jill?" a little closer to her ear. "Jill...you all right?"

He gets no vocal response. But her fingers suddenly clutch at him harder, and the catch in her next breath is worse. The breaths after that are stuttered and quick, with an edge to them that being an older brother had made him long familiar with.

She's not crying. Not yet. But she's close, closer than she wants to be. It's a response that would've upset the Jill Valentine he'd known.

He suspects it's the same for the Jill Valentine he's holding now.

"Shhh," he whispers, one hand slowly sliding up and down her back. "Shh, Jill, it's okay. It's okay now, it's - "

"No - " comes the soft whisper. "Chris, no - " Her head twists against his chest as if she can't breathe, and automatically he relaxes his hold on her. He doesn't want to let her go now, not when she's like this, but if she needs the space.

The way she clutches at him then immediately tells him that she doesn't need the space. His arms tighten back on her, a little glad for it. He hadn't wanted to let her go regardless, not when this was the only contact he'd had with her in years. The only contact he'd have with her for weeks. The only time -

"Chris," comes the rasp of her voice.

"I'm here, Jill."

Her hands soften a little on her back, and in a voice both soft and broken, she asks, "Are you?"

Oh _hell_.

Oh fuck and hell and shit and damn -

He squeezes her tight, tilting his head to be able to whisper more directly to her. "It's not a dream, Jill," he whispers. "Pinch me - I'm real."

She bites him.

His body tenses at the pain, wanting to shove her away, but he overrides the urge. There's shirt in the way to blunt a little of the impact, but damn, the woman continues to have some sharp fucking little teeth. She worries a little at fabric and skin, enough to get a grunt of pain out of him, and that seems to be enough for her to let go of him.

"Not a dream," he says softly. He slides a hand down her spine to the edge of her shirt, moves under it, and rubs a nail against her skin hard enough to leave a scratch. "Not a dream, Jill."

Her hands tighten, and her head shifts again, as if seeking to bury herself even deeper into his chest. He keeps his arms tight around her, keeps stroking her back and making soothing noises, keeps not letting it show how much she'd just rattled him. Not so much for the display of emotion - Jill was way overdue for one of those - but because of how aptly she'd reflected his thoughts back at him. He had been struck amazed by the fact that he held Jill, the real Jill, the living Jill, in his arms. Not some dream. Not some projection of an exhausted mind. Not a product of delirium. Flesh and blood, breathing, _living_ Jill Valentine.

He'd never thought he'd be able to do that again.

He wishes he could tell her that he'd always believed she'd been alive out there. That not finding the body had kept a fragile hope awake in him. But hell, they hadn't found Wesker's body either, and he'd firmly believed the man was dead. No - he'd had to accept Jill's death as quickly as he could, accept the idea that the lack of body meant she was just part of the local food chain now, or had been washed to a place where the BSAA's searches would never find her. He'd had to: for his job, for his mission, for his sanity. If there had been any shred of hope of Jill being alive, he would've never left those mountains.

But he'd had to. He had to go back to Claire, to the BSAA, to the work that'd driven him for so many years. He couldn't die yet. There were things that needed to be done.

He just hadn't realized how fucking lonely it was to do those things without his partner. Without someone who had been in his life for over a decade, who had grown to know him better than nearly anyone else. It was like someone had washed out the color of his world; no longer was it as bright, as saturated, as it had been. Something had gone missing; even with time, it would always be missing.

He can't show that to Jill. He doesn't know if he'll ever be able to show that to Jill, to tell her exactly how much of a struggle it was to exist in his greying world, or how terrible he'd felt when it'd started to become easier. That's not her burden, it's his. But even if he can't say that, there is something he needs to say to her before she goes. Before her color is gone again.

"I missed you, Jill," he whispers, brushing his cheek lightly against the top of her head. "More...more than I can say."

Except that's not what he wants to say, not at all, it doesn't tell her anything! He -

Her body softens against his, her fingers loosening on his back. "Thank you," she whispers again.

- is just going to have to accept that, somehow, that was exactly what she needed to hear.

Her hands drop from his back, and before he's truly ready, she moves out of his embrace. She brushes at her face, wiping away non-existent tears, then looks up at him and offers a tentative smile. "Thank you...partner," she says.

It'd probably be more professional to just nod at that. But her smile draws one from him, and he manages a rusty "You're welcome" along with it.

Her slip of a smile broadens, and for a moment, they just look at each other. For a moment, they take each other in, and the world subtly realigns to the two of them again. Different people, perhaps, but - still partners.

At which point, the spot where she bit him gives a twinge, and he winces. He touches it, and it twangs under that, a dull ache. He gives her a look, and is amused to note she's colored a bit. "You couldn't have left it on the last one?" he asks.

She blinks at at him a moment, and then lets out a half-laugh. "Didn't want to scar your pretty skin," she replies, voice still not entirely steady.

"You're a little late for that," he replies.

"By about thirty years, I know," she sighs, her voice a little smoother. She reaches up to brush at the wet mark on his shirt, and somehow, her touch only makes it warm, not hurt. Because his body is a bastard like that. "Mm...Redfield?"

"Yeah?"

"You should really wash this shirt. It tastes terrible."

She makes a face, as if he needed to know exactly how bad it is.

"Probably, yeah," he says. "I did spend all day in the field - "

She makes another face, and this one is a little more genuine. It fades after a second into something a little more concerned.

"You must be starving," she says.

"And dirty," he agrees. "Yeah to both. But - "

He wants to touch her. He wants to let his warmth mingle with hers again, wants to feel the subtle give of her skin to go along with the rush of her breath. Doesn't matter that he just got done doing that, he wants to - one more time - before she goes.

But he doesn't. His hand rises a little, but he pulls it back. Little steps, for now.

Her expression shifts to something a little more serious, and the way her eyes move across him, he knows she caught the gesture. He also knows she won't say anything about it. Not just yet.

"It was good to see you, Jill," he finally says. "And I hope you have a safe flight back."

Why yes, he, Chris Redfield, really is a mass of lame.

It does make her start to smile. "Yeah, thanks," she says, and then the smile fades. "You take care of yourself, all right, Chris?"

"Count on it," he says. "Can't really see the cherries from a hospital bed, after all."

Her mouth curves a hair. "Still never made it, huh?"

"No," he sighs. DC was known for its flowering cherries, and despite the fact that Claire has invited him for years to see them with her, he's never be able to. Always too busy with work.

She regards him for a second. "I don't know about that," she says. "I'm sure there's a decent view of the Basin from some - "

"Are you trying to jinx me, Valentine?"

"Never," she says, the hint of a smile growing into a true one. "Claire would have my head if I did that."

"Oh, trust me, it'd be my fault," Chris replies dryly. "Somehow. Besides, she'll be too happy to see you to be mad about anything."

Jill face blanks for a second, but before he can ask, she gives a little nod. "I look forward to it," she says. "But for now - I really should -

"Yeah. Me too."

Another one of those looks.

To hell with it, he can't resist touching her. He's been as good a boy as he can be ever since she pulled him into that helicopter; he's followed all the BSAA's rules and instructions about her, even if all he wanted to was share her space again. Be by her again.

He touches her cheek. It's meant to be a gentle brush, but she leans into it. For a moment, they hold, eyes on each other along the line of his outstretched arm.

"Have a safe trip, Jill," he says, his voice lower than he intended.

She nods, then strokes her fingers along the back of his hand. "Come home soon, Chris," she replies.

He nods, and lets his hand drop. For a second it seems like their fingers will twine, but she pulls away. She gives a little nod back, then turns and, with deliberate steps, leaves the conference room.

He lets out a breath he didn't even realize he was holding. For a long moment, he just lets the encounter wash over him: her look, her sound, her feel. The bite twinges at him, but it feels less like a poke and more like a hum, like a part of her warmth vibrating his skin.

He knows, by this point, that it'll be a hickey-ish bruise when he looks at in the mirror. He also knows that it won't last nearly long enough, that by the time he boards his plane for the 'States, it'll have lightened to a trace of yellow on his skin. Nor will it scar. It'll be sensitive, sure, but it won't stick.

Before, it was sort of a halfhearted hope. This time, he actively wishes. It's the only piece of Jill he'll have for a while, and he wishes that he could keep it around just by force of will.

But he's right: it fades. In fact, it fades faster than he expected, and by the time he gets cleared to go back to the US, there's no trace of it left on him whatsoever.

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><p>We've all got our version of what happens post-RE 5. Or in my case, a half-dozen variations on a theme. ;)<p>

Four parts down, two to go (through a massive amount of editing). See yall in a coupla weeks.


	5. Virginia, 2009

So hey, remember when I said at the beginning of posting that this story was done, it was just a matter of revisions?

This bit, as it turned out, needed a pretty substantial bit rewritten. Which is why it's taken me _the rest of the freaking summer_ to do so. Sorry guys; when the beta says redo it, I may pull my hair and gnash my teeth, but I redo it. Also, incidentally, I drove across the country twice. That sort of does take up time.

My thanks to everyone who has waited patiently, who has commented, who has commented to say that they're waiting patiently, and in particular Chirika, thelexhex, x-Artichoke-x, The Beginning of Talent, and most especially The Magnificent Kiwi, who have all indulged me in (sometimes really wordy) conversations. Thanks guys 3 And as always, much love to my betas, who did not strangle me when I probably deserved it.

**Warning: **Swear words are used within; bodily functions are mentioned; sex and sexual organs get a nod as well. It's all very brief, really, but the T rating still applies.

And thanks, again, for sticking around yall. :D

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><p>V. Virginia, 2009<p>

Chris wakes to darkness.

For a moment he's disoriented, the mists of sleep still fogging his mind. But he's woken up in a lot of different places around the globe in this sort of haze, and his brain fumblingly goes to work processing the details. There's a soft bed underneath him, softer than his at home; the feel of artificially cooled air along his shoulders and neck; the cluttered hush of the night behind him; the soft sound of someone breathing next to him.

Someone breathing -

His brain finally turns over, and all the tension drains away from him, his head dropping back to the pillow. He's got it now: where he is, who's next to him, and why he should just roll over and go back to sleep.

Which he would, if nature hadn't already put in a call and was waiting patiently - for the moment - for him to answer. It might cooperate in the bush, but back in the city? No such luck.

He looks towards Jill, squinting a little; in the dark of the room, he can feel her better than he can see her. Jill curls and bunches when she sleeps, usually on her side; this time, she's done it against his arm, not so much curled around it as curled towards it, her head turned in towards the mattress, her arms lightly linked over his. Much as he'd be okay with her even closer, intertwined, it makes it easier to slip away from her and out of bed.

Now, to find that bathroom without killing himself. It's connected to this bedroom at some point, he knows that much; just a matter of finding it and not, say, the closet.

He manages, only bumping into something once, not even stubbing a toe. Pretty good for a room he had only seen bits and pieces of earlier, and he hadn't exactly been focused on memorizing its layout then. He'd had something much better to focus on.

He closes the door behind him before fumbling for the switch. Jill sometimes sleeps soundly, sometimes more on edge, but there's no need to chance waking her. Sleep hasn't been easy for her - for either of them - since Africa; Kijuju had left its mental scars as well as its physical ones, and those always healed so much slower. Especially if you had as many as Jill did.

He hits the light, letting the brightness push those thoughts away. Concern is not the primary emotion he has for his partner these days, but it's always there in the shadows, waiting to poke its head out and make him obnoxious all over again. Jill doesn't need that.

He blinks hard at the mirror. Compact fluorescents: environmentally friendly, pain in the ass on night vision. In his own place he would've left the damn lights off, but this wasn't his place or Jill's. Not the time to see if his marksman rating applied to pissing.

A few more blinks, and he can blearily make his way over to the toilet. Nature's call is answered, and all is well.

It's not until he's washing up that he catches sight of them.

He grins, then finishes rinsing and drying before turning back to the mirror for a good once over. Where had Jill gotten him this time -

Lesse, there's a faint mark just under his collar, on the edge of the forbidden territory of his neck. There's a darker, wider mark brushed across the left side of his abs, and he can't help the shiver as he remembers exactly how he'd gotten that. There's a couple of indents along the sides of his shoulders, too, but that's collateral damage. He turns in the mirror and finds another faint bruise along his side. He doesn't remember her mouth or her fingers there; must have been towards the end of things, when all he could feel was the squeeze of her pussy around him, lost in it and the notes of her voice. He bets that if he checked his back he'd find a fine pattern of scratches to match the scattering of bruises in front; Jill liked to clutch, to dig in, especially at the end. She keeps her nails regulation short, but in those final moments, it never seemed to matter; she always left her imprint.

He looks up from his examination to find himself grinning at the mirror. It's a little grin, and he's not sure if it'd count as smug or just dopey. There's a fine line between the two, he's coming to find, and damned if he can't always tell which one is coming up on his face at which time.

He chuckles. To think that, just a short time ago, checking himself for bruises after sex would've been a weird idea. He's never been that keen on bruising, biting, frantic sex to begin with. But with Jill -

Jill is, and has always been, a scrapper. He'd known that ever since she'd bitten him on the arm in S.T.A.R.S. training, all those eons ago. She had a tendency to wear a flat mask around people she didn't know, tucking her emotions carefully under the edges, but the two of them had long moved past that. With him, she was warm, a little bit flaky, a little bit silly, and possessed of a potent dry humor that she used like a scalpel. There were still secrets between them - even more now - but those boundaries were old and respected, with the unspoken knowledge that if one of those boundaries needed to come down, the other would be there to listen. But aside from that, they were open with each other.

From that view, it made sense that when it came to sex, they wouldn't hold back with each other. And they hadn't.

He brushes a bruise, the pain chiming faintly in his head, and remembers the first time this kind of hickey had come up between them. It'd been shortly after their first time together. Despite the sharp sexual tension that had existed between them since Kijuju, they'd moved cautiously about a change to their relationship, and even after they'd both agreed to go for it, they'd spent some time debating how to proceed.

Which had meant at the time that they'd spent, oh, fifteen minutes or so discussing it between ever lengthening kisses. Both of them had the same idea - not to rush into anything - but there was the matter of deciding just what "rushing" meant for both of them. And just a little ways into that discussion, Jill had broken away from a deep kiss, looked him dead in the eye, and said, "Unless you don't want to."

Then she'd leaned in and bitten him on the shoulder. It was not a desperate bite, this one, nor one to teach him some sort of necessary lesson. It had been almost sweet in its softness, just the hint of her teeth digging into his shirt, breath warm and moist on the area.

It'd made all the hairs on his neck and arms stand straight up. And that hadn't been all -

It was the last clear memory he had of that night until about a half hour later, when he'd gotten his first look at post-sex Jill.

He'd boggled, and not because of her hair, or the languid look to her eyes, but because he'd left marks all over her. There were bruises on her hips. There were bite marks, fucking _teeth prints_, on her shoulders, among other places. There was what looked to be a teeny hickey scattered in among the scars on her chest. He wanted to tear his eyes away, but couldn't stop looking at her, jaw half-open. Even when she'd leaned up and kissed the corner of his mouth, said his name -

He hadn't responded. He hadn't known how to respond. What the hell was wrong with him, that he'd hurt the woman he -

She'd caught his look then, and with a whisper of a smile, had rolled in and pressed her finger against a bruise on his abs. "Got you," she'd whispered, eyes understanding.

Her finger had drifted across his body, picking out each little spot with a "And here - and here - and here - and...oh, Chris, I'm sorry, this one must hurt."

He'd taken her hand then, kissed it, and said with all honesty, "I don't feel a thing."

She'd given him a little smile. "Neither do I."

Then she'd leaned up to kiss him, and...things had gotten a little blurry after that again.

He'd figured that the hickeys would stop eventually, that as he and Jill got used to each other, they would drift into something a little less intense. And they've certainly had their sweeter moments since then. But the hickeys have remained, no matter how sweet or how frantic they get with each other.

It used to bother him; he can admit that to himself now as he turns in the mirror to see if he's missed any other marks. Not that he'd said anything to Jill, because their time together was short enough as it was without trying to cram in a session on "why all the hickeys?" on top of it all. The situation Jill had come back to was tense enough without getting into it about the sex life they probably shouldn't be having.

Just thinking about it makes him sigh, and not in a good way. The two of them had recused themselves from BSAA politics once the chartering was done in order to get away from the sticky situation that was the relationship between it and the GPC. Yet the information he'd brought back along with Jill had dropped them right in the center of it again. Arguably, she got the worst of it, too; he'd just shone a light on the problem. She'd been an eyewitness to it.

Umbrella's tools had destroyed a city and two research bases, not to mention countless other smaller sites that weren't as well known, yet it had taken more than five years to finally put them in their grave. Tricell, it seemed, was aiming for the same strategy of keeping themselves alive. They even had a convenient excuse: it was the African branch that had done it, and that was that. Tricell proper had been amazingly in the dark about the whole thing, and were shocked, nay appalled, at what had happened there!

And he was the Queen of England. But given how Tricell had spun its press, and how so much of the world had swallowed it, he should be getting fitted for the Crown Jewels any day now.

The BSAA had reacted, as the BSAA did, by trying to play both sides. Unfortunately, Jill's side was the "losing" side. Chris, Josh and Sheva were all awarded medals; Jill got a lot of in-house medical testing and multiple questioning sessions. Chris had been allowed to go back to work after a short leave; Jill had been put on the books just to give her six months of desk work on medical grounds and to have an excuse to keep her in BSAA housing. Chris was still viewed positively by most of his co-workers; Jill was stuck between three camps, of which one thought she was a traitor, one thought she was spy, and the last didn't give a damn because she was Jill Valentine. The last group was pitifully small.

There've been some good things, too, of course. Someone had put pressure on the BSAA - someone he suspect had a last name that rhymed with "Dennedy" - to work with WitSec to get Jill a legal identity much faster than she would've otherwise, new social security number and all. The old crowd had gone out of their way to make Jill feel as welcome and part of the BSAA as ever, even in her reduced role. Claire had attacked many of Jill's other problems with a ferocity that had surprised Jill; it was weird, he knew, to be on the receiving end of Claire's Mama Bear tendencies if you hadn't been before. It's thanks to Claire that he and Jill are out here, in fact; she'd gotten Jill a house-sitting gig - after somehow clearing it with the BSAA - to get her out the city and give her a some place she could relax.

And there's him. Them. This fragile new relationship of theirs. The one that they haven't acknowledged to anyone outside themselves yet. The one that he'd hoped, in the beginning, wasn't doing as much harm as good. After all, there may be bright spots in her life, but otherwise, it's a litany of shit. Not the best time to start a relationship, even if in some ways, the relationship had been in progress for years.

Which was why he wasn't too keen to bring up the whole hickey thing. If Jill needed to externalize her frustrations on his skin, so be it; he'd keep the complaining inside his head.

And then one day he'd seen something that had made it all click into place.

He'd been heading upstairs to his office, reports in hand, when he caught sight of Jill talking to Assistant Director Laird. The AD had been Jill's primary contact with BSAA upper management, and from the carefully controlled expressions on both their faces, the conversation was not going in Jill's favor. As Chris watched, he'd patted her on the shoulder - a move that put his teeth and Jill's on edge, he could tell - and then walked off.

Jill had stared after the man a moment. Then, she'd reached down and pressed her fingers against the indent of her hip.

The same indent Chris was fond of leaving his mark on. In fact, he knew there was one there right then; he'd made a little pattern out of it that time, just because it made her laugh.

She'd pushed in, and her eyes had closed for a long moment. A second later, she'd taken a deep breath, opened her eyes, then headed for the hall opposite him.

All in all, the whole bit took about fifteen seconds. But what it did for Chris -

Jill's life hadn't been a pleasant place since August of 2006. She'd been nearly killed, experimented on, tortured in various ways he still didn't know the full story on, then enslaved. She'd been forced to do and become things she'd been fighting against for nearly a decade. And when he'd managed to break her out of that, it was to come back to a world that expected her to be the one to catch up. That had no time for her feelings or her scars. That wanted her only for those experiences she never wanted to remember. He'd saved Jill, yes, but in a way he'd damned her to a lot of pain, too.

Yet she didn't blame him; she cared for him. She still allowed him close to her. She took comfort from his presence, be it from him in person or from the traces of him he'd left on her skin. Just as he could, to his amazement, take comfort from the hints of her she'd left on his.

Those marks had nothing to do with frustration, and everything to do with the friendship, trust, and love that had bound them for so long. They can't be open about what they are to each other now, but they make damn well sure the other knows what the story is. That's what those marks were: a replacement for all the nights they couldn't stay with each other, the looks they couldn't share in public, the things they couldn't say. Kinda like an "I love you" left on the skin.

It'd also given him hope that maybe, just maybe, they hadn't irrevocably fucked things up by starting this whole thing now. After all, sex changed things-that was just how it worked. The important thing was that it didn't change what had lain between them for such a long time, but added to it. They had been team mates. Colleagues. Friends. Best buddies. Now they could add 'lovers' to that, and - hopefully - keep it there.

He has a good feeling that they'll be able to do that, even with the bumps in the road and all the shit to shovel. Optimism hasn't been his game for awhile, but for this, for Jill? He'll do his damnedest at it.

And now he's been staring at this mirror with a stupid expression on his face for far, far too long for a man who has a warm bed and lady to get back to.

He hits the light, lets his eyes adjust a little, then heads back into the bedroom. He manages to make it back to bed without stubbing his toes or knocking anything over, which makes him two for two against this bedroom. He's ruminating on that streak as he gets back into the guest bed carefully as he can, trying not to disturb Jill -

And the moment he thinks he's done it, she rolls over against him. "Mornin'," she whispers, brushing her forehead against his shoulder. "You're up early."

"Bathroom," he says, casually as possible. "Did I wake you?"

"No." She props her chin on his shoulder. "Cold did, I think."

"You're cold?" He leans up to check her side of the bed, and yeah, it does look like she's pulled most of the blanket over to it.

"A little, still," she replies, inching a bit closer to him. She lays her head against his shoulder. "If only there was something or someone that could help me with that - "

He can take a hint. She didn't even need to put it in neon like that.

It takes a couple of seconds to rearrange so that they're both on their side, Jill in the circle of his arms. She lets out a soft sigh as they settle in, one that sounds a little weightier than just happy to be warm.

"Jill?"

She inches back against him some more, hands tightening over his where they rest at her waist. Another few moments, and then in a voice like a shadow: "You good, Chris?"

He can think of a dozen ways to answer that, in voice and in actions. But there's only one way that seems appropriate right now.

He shifts a hair, leans in, and bites her lightly on the shoulder. It's barely enough pressure to dent the skin, and certainly won't leave a mark, but it's a message all the same.

Her breath catches, and for a second, he wonders if he fucked that one up.

Then she exhales, and without having to see, he can tell she's smiling.

"Me, too," she whispers.


	6. Outtake and Author's Notes

I had a number of people congratulate me on getting through part IV without kissing. And you know, when I wrote it? I was kinda impressed with myself, too.

So now it's time to spoil yall's good opinion of me by posting the kissing omake ("extra") I wrote after I finished part IV the first time around. Because I am hopeless like that.

Note that while this does expect you to have read Part IV - it skips the whole intro bit - it does tell almost the same events in pretty much the same order, only with different language and, well, smooches. It's also much shorter, as you'll see. Feel free to skip down to the Author's Notes (if you read those); I wrote this for gits and shiggles, and aside from being the genesis of the cherries bit for the original, it doesn't add a whole lot besides kissing.

Warning given. If you're sticking, I do hope you enjoy. :)

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><p>Outtake<br>Part IV: An Unexpected Smooch

He steps into the room to find Jill waiting, back to the door, body limned in the light of sunset. "Hey," he says, closing the door sharply. "You wanted to see me?"

She turns, and something sighs inside him: she looks more like Jill now than she did before. She's still got the blonde hair - though he'd heard she cut it really short - but she's wearing the standard BSAA pants and a blue pull over top and sure, she's pale, but she stands like Jill. And the smile she gives him, even with its little hesitations, is just like Jill, too.

"Hey," she says, moving to meet him at the head of the table. "Yeah, I did."

"What's up?" It feels weird to sound so casual, but it's the only thing that's coming out of his mouth right now.

Her eyes drift from his for a moment, then come back. "They're shipping me back to the 'States," she says.

He feels his eyes go wide, and though he wants to congratulate her, there are subtle signs that she's not pleased with this particular bit of news. He moves in further. "I think I'm supposed to say that's a good thing," he says, voice slow, "but you don't look like you're happy about it."

"I'm - okay with it," she says. Her eyes turn wistful. "It'll be nice to go back."

_It'll be nice for you to be safe,_ he adds to himself. "But - " he says aloud, continuing her thought.

Her eyes drop. "I'm a little worried about why they're calling me back," she says, and the words sound - forced, as if she doesn't want to say them. "They're already talking the next round of tests, and with those come another debrief, and - " She sighs. "I was hoping the work here would be enough."

"When is onsite ever good enough for them?" he asks, and no, that's not bitterness in his voice in the slightest.

She looks up, though, and there's something brighter in her eyes. "I know," she says. "And I know that if it were me, and I had some random BSAA agent - "

"Important BSAA agent," he corrects.

" - who was supposed to be dead show up on my doorstep, I would ask for secondary confirmation, too. I would want to see them myself, ask them questions myself, get their samples to the lab myself." She sighs. "Wouldn't you, Chris?"

Before he can say anything, she adds, "If it were Wesker, for instance. Wouldn't you want to be cautious?"

He doesn't even have to think before he says, "I'd ride in the damn cargo hold with the body myself."

Her mouth quirks. "With the cold and the pressure problems? You'd end up a corpse yourself."

"Then he could ride in the cabin next to me," he growls, and her smile finally widens to something brighter, something that almost touches her eyes.

"You understand then," she says, voice quiet.

He sighs, and without thinking, reaches out to snag her hand. "I do," he says. "I've spent a lot of time dealing with HQ. They're not happy with me either right now, I'm sure."

"Is that why you're out there helping?"

He squeezes her hand. "You know why I'm out there helping," he says. "And I've seen some of your notes on the maps and reports, too. That won't go unnoticed, Jill."

She squeezes his hand back. "I hope not."

There's a moment of quiet between them, and it feels sort of stuffy and odd, like he's missing something. He breaks it with, "Thanks for calling me to tell me this, Jill. I know you didn't have to do it in person."

Her eyebrows go up. "Like I could do it any other way," she says. "That's not the way partners work, Chris."

Something about the way she says that word warms him; always has, and does even more, now.

"Especially since I'm leaving tomorrow morning. Early." She makes a face. "More like late tonight, really."

He grins; Jill is a forced member of the Morning Person tribe, and she has never been fond of early morning flights. "I could've gotten up," he says.

Her face softens suddenly. "Maybe," she says, "but that's not all I wanted to say."

She catches his other hand in hers, and for a moment, her head tilts down. An emotion stirs in his stomach, poignant and odd, one that makes him want to shift and let go of her fingers. They feel very warm against his.

"What is it, Jill?" he finally asks, unable to last another thirty seconds.

"I wanted to - to - " She shakes her head a little, then looks back up at him. Her face seems confused, but her eyes are clear and full of will. "I wanted to thank you, Chris," she says. "For coming after me."

He stares at her.

She squeezes his hands again. "I've heard, a little, about what you went through. About how you didn't...stop." The corner of her mouth curls up. "I've heard that you've been like this for the past few months, like you knew something and weren't saying anything. So - "

Suddenly she drops his hands, and like that, she's in his space. She pushes up on her toes in a movement that seems slow and graceful, and her lips glance across his cheek. Her eyes meet his for a second, and there's something besides will in them, even as she drops back to the ground, still standing close him.

Much closer than she had been.

"Thanks, Chris," she says, her voice soft and husky.

He touches her face without thinking. "There's no need to thank me," he says, and his voice now matches hers in its own way, a low vibration of air.

Her mouth curves that little bit again, and her eyes meet his. "Yes," she says, "there is." The words seem to barely disturb the air, though they draw his attention to her mouth. She doesn't wear anything in the field besides chapstick, Jill, but they look redder. Moist.

His eyes track back to hers as his thumb strokes her face, and when they meet, it's like a jolt from head to toe, a feeling of openness so rarely shared this fully between them. "Jill," he hears himself say, as he closes the distance between them. "It's what any partner would've done."

"Not just any - " she starts as her body rises.

The kiss cuts off the last of her words, or is what her words were leading to. It is gentle and warm, and it only lasts a second or so, a quick meeting. It is a kiss from him, a touch as light as he can bear.

The kiss that follows it is still warm, but it's not as gentle, and it lasts longer than a second. It is a kiss from her, her mouth catching his.

The kiss that follows that is warmer still, and open mouthed, and it lasts. His arms naturally fit around her as her hands slide along his sleeves; his head tilts and she follows, open mouth slanting across his, tongue touching the edge of his lip.

And then it all merges into a single kiss between the both of them.

She is so warm. She smells a little of generic soap and tastes mostly of nothing at all, but it's all background to the warmth that slithers between them. Her fingers leave spots of heat on his sleeves and back, and when her nails stroke the skin above his collar he almost hisses. His fingers move along the back of her shirt - a man's shirt, faded to softness - trailing the curve from hip to spine, somewhat in time to the stroke of the kiss between them. He feels as though he should touch her more, and at the same time that he can't, that touching her skin now will make this too real, too much.

Then Jill pulls back, just enough to break the kiss. "Chris," she whispers, her lips ghosting over his, making it hard to resist the urge to close the distance. "Chris, I - "

The stairwell door slams. Loudly.

Like that, they're on opposite sides of the table, both looking at the door. There's a long moment of listening for footsteps, fingers brushing clothes back into place, and he can almost feel a breeze from the both of them rifling their minds for an excuse. Just in case.

No footsteps, not even the creak of a floorboard. Another minute passes, and then they look back at each other. His eyes skim over her: there's receding color in her cheeks, but other than that, she looks untouched. Just fine. Just like Jill.

She's doing the same appraisal, and there's a moment when their eyes meet - and then look away.

He feels himself flinch. This isn't how their last meeting should end, unable to look at each other. This is not the memory he wants to send Jill away with. But he can't think of anything to break the silence that hangs between them.

To be honest, he'd much rather be kissing her again. Which is...also a problem, but not one he wants to deal with right now. He's not sure -

Jill clears her throat, breaking his chain of thought. "I should get back to my room," she says. "Finish packing."

"Yeah, with that early flight."

Another moment of stupid silence.

"When - when do you think you'll be back?"

Something in her voice makes him lift his head, look at her. "Last estimate I heard was a week," he says. "I'm guessing more like a week and a half."

"Mid-March," she murmurs.

"Sounds about right."

Her head tilts, and then her eyes flick up to his, a shy expression in them. "Any longer than that, and you'll miss the cherries again."

He manages to hold her eyes, manages a little smile. "I do keep doing that," he says. "Claire - she's given up on me."

"Maybe you should try harder this year."

He gives a little shrug. "I'll see what I can do."

Their eyes meet again, and do not deflect.

"Jill - "

She taps her fingers on the table, cutting him off. "I'd better go."

He swallows his apology, a little unnerved by the look in her eye. "All right," he says.

She moves around the table, and he can't keep his eyes from tracking her as she moves past. He wants to chalk it up to partner habits or the missing two years, but - that's not all of it. Not right now.

Then, without a word, she stops, turns, and looks at him. Before he can move, she sweeps in and kisses him. It's not the full kiss of before, but it's not just a peck, either, and she holds it long enough to make sure her point comes across. She breaks off and takes a step back just as his brain starts nudging him to do the same. Her hand trails along his shoulder and rests at his neck for a second, then slips up to curve against the side of his face. It makes his eyes meet hers, meet and hold.

"Hurry home, partner," she says, voice low and husky again.

He stares at her a moment, brain in a swirl, before he manages a nod.

She gives him a small, tight smile, then turns and slips out the door.

* * *

><p>And so ends this story of Chris and Jill.<p>

Just for fun, have a little background on this whole adventure aka **Author's Notes** aka _Ten Babbles Like a Babbling Thing_

I started this story based on an idea from the Lovely Beta Faye last July, when it was known as "Five Hickeys." My first draft of it went up for her on the 19th of July, 2010. The last draft of it was checked by her on the 19th of September, 2011.

To say I sometimes have a long lead time is something of an understatement. "Vacation" took a couple of days to write, was done in late July 2010, and went up in November. In contrast, this story had Parts I, II, and IV (it and the outtake) done very quickly, but then Parts III and V didn't work out so well. One of the reasons was that Part IV used to be Part III, and Part V used to be Part IV. The original Part V was going to take place out on a mission, involving covert snuggling between Chris and Jill, and a marriage proposal from Jill based on an easier commute and better tax breaks.

(She was kidding about those reasons. Mostly.)

Eventually, I added the bridging Part III set in the BSAA years and shifted up Parts IV and V. Part V got written and set long before Part III did, though; both of them went through numerous different tries and rewrites. I am tempted to post somewhere every example I came up with for Part III, including the other one I completed and eventually stole bits from. The whole idea of the "nice" bite in Part III actually came from Lovely Beta Himawari, who suggested I should be less dramatic for one of these. Part V, on the other hand, was roughly the same set piece for a long time, just with different intros and exits to the bathroom. I got mightily sick of it in the last month and a half and took stabs at rewriting it from a completely different angle, but again, the Lovely Beta Himawari pointed out that going simple was better, and she liked Chris's midnight thoughts with the mirror. Lovely Beta Faye made me pare and pare and pare and pare and pare and _pare _down the post-RE 5 details I kept including in order to better fit the frame story. I wrote many other things to work out my frustration. All in all, I still want to stab Parts III and V in a sensitive place, but since it all managed to come together in the end, I'll spare them. For now.

Next up for Ten, we have four possibilities, along with the Epic Stories of Ridiculousness I keep writing in the background:

-"Five Other Firsts": A look at other ways Jill and Chris could've possibly met outside of S.T.A.R.S.

-"Dancing in the Dark": Jill teaches Chris to dance Latin one late Saturday night at the BSAA gym.

-"Corporate Training": In order to secure Jill's final reinstatement, Chris and Jill are required to give a training seminar on zombies to two very different groups.

-"Batman, I'm Not": _Awhile back I received some intel that my old partner was still alive._ A look at Chris's life through diary entries and random scenes from August of 2008 to March of 2009. Prequel to _Blues_, aka the Epic Stories of Ridiculousness (coming to an Internet website near you no sooner than 2012).

Voting will probably not affect what does come next, but if you want to toss in your two cents, feel free. However the posting order goes, I do hope to see yall there. :)

Thank you again for reading; it is much appreciated, and I hope you've enjoyed it as much as I've enjoyed writing and fighting the idea.

-Ten


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